Enoch

I look'd to find a man who walk'd with God,
Like the translated patriarch of old; —
Though gladden'd millions on his footstool trod,
Yet none with him did such sweet converse hold;
I heard the wind in low complaint go by,
That none its melodies like him could hear;
Day unto day spoke wisdom from on high,
Yec none like Davib turn'd a willing ear;
God walk'd alone unhonour'd through the earth;
Foi him no heart-built temple open stood,
The soul, forgetful of her nobler birth,
Had hewn him lofty shrines of stone and wood,
And left unfinish'd and in ruins still
The only temple he delights to fill.